Some quarter of a century before the period with which this story deals, a certain rich and misanthropic man was seized with a bright idea for perpetuating his memory after death, and at the same time harassing a certain section of mankind. So in his will he set aside a portion of his income to be spent on an annual prize for the best poem submitted by a member of the Sixth Form of St Austin's College, on a subject to be selected by the Headmaster. And, he added--one seems to hear him chuckling to himself--every member of the form must compete. Then he died. But the evil that men do lives after them, and each year saw a fresh band of unwilling bards goaded to despair by his bequest. True, there were always one or two who hailed this ready market for their sonnets and odes with joy. But the majority, being barely able to rhyme 'dove' with 'love', regarded the annual announcement of the subject chosen with feelings of the deepest disgust. The chains were thrown off after a period of twenty-seven years in this fashion. Reynolds of the Remove was indirectly the cause of the change. He was in the infirmary, convalescing after an attack of German measles, when he received a visit from Smith, an ornament of the Sixth. 'By Jove,' remarked that gentleman, gazing enviously round the sick-room, 'they seem to do you pretty well here.' 'Yes, not bad, is it? Take a seat. Anything been happening lately?' 'Nothing much. I suppose you know we beat the M.C.C. by a wicket?' 'Yes, so I heard. Anything else?' 'Prize poem,' said Smith, without enthusiasm. He was not a poet. Reynolds became interested at once. If there was one role in which he fancied himself (and, indeed, there were a good many), it was that of a versifier. His great ambition was to see some of his lines in print, and he had contracted the habit of sending them up to various periodicals, with no result, so far, except the arrival of rejected MSS. at meal-times in embarrassingly long envelopes. Which he blushingly concealed with all possible speed. 'What's the subject this year?' he asked. 'The College--of all idiotic things.' 'Couldn't have a better subject for an ode. By Jove, I wish I was in the Sixth.' 'Wish I was in the infirmary,' said Smith. Reynolds was struck with an idea. 'Look here, Smith,' he said, 'if you like I'll do you a poem, and you can send it up. If it gets the prize--' 'Oh, it won't get the prize,' Smith put in eagerly. 'Rogers is a cert. for that.' 'If it gets the prize,' repeated Reynolds, with asperity, 'you'll have to tell the Old Man all about it. He'll probably curse a bit, but that can't be helped. How's this for a beginning? "Imposing pile, reared up 'midst pleasant grounds, The scene of many a battle, lost or won, At cricket or at football; whose red walls Full many a sun has kissed 'ere day is done."'